The Road to Awe
by Vrazdova
Summary: FFVI, Rachel & Locke: When Rachel is denied a seat on the Phantom Train, she sets out to find answers.
1. Chapter 1

**Fandom:** Final Fantasy VI  
**Characters:** Rachel, Locke  
**Length:** 3 chapters total  
**Additional tags:** Afterlife, Meta, Worldbuilding  
**Summary: **When Rachel is denied a seat on the Phantom Train, she sets out to find answers.  
**A/N:** This was intended to be a short Rachel-centric mirror to my Madeline fic ("A Silent Aeon"), but it's turning out to include a lot more meta and general worldbuilding than I originally planned. This story contains a lot of original ideas with the intent to flesh out some of the smaller details of the FFVI canon.  
The title is taken from a quote from _The Fountain_ - "Death is the road to awe."

* * *

The sight of the brown Imperial uniforms stirs something violent within her. She's never actually _seen _them before – she's sure of that – but she can hear a strangely familiar voice in the back of her mind describing the way they look with such precise detail that it's impossible to mistake these men for anything but soldiers of the Gestahlian Empire. They march into town with a pompous swagger; young men with foreign faces, flashing polished swords as passports to any land they choose. Their boots kick up dirt along the roads and they raise their voices as though even conversation is a competition.

The soldiers demand ale at the pubs and beds at the inns. When they're told there isn't enough room to house them all, they invite themselves into private homes. When two of them enter her father's house, she crosses her arms and stands her ground.

They jeer at her and call her names. They mock her land, her dress and her dialect. They tell her she is inferior to people of the South. One of them touches her hair and grabs her wrist.

She spits in his face.

When her father returns home, he finds her bound to a chair with blood on her forehead and shards of pottery at her feet. The soldiers have helped themselves to food and drink.

Her father doesn't fight further, but falls to his knees and begs them release her. That night, the rightful residents sleep on the floor as the soldiers take the comfort of mattresses and blankets for themselves.

- x - x - x -

She awakens with a start and gazes into the moonlight spilling through the window. Her head throbs under its bandage as lost memories suddenly overwhelm her – of medical textbooks and botany lessons, of pounding drums and wild dances, of silver jewels gifted from faraway lands and talks of marriage. Of a day's ride to the mountain caverns in the East. Of a bridge with rotting and slippery planks. Of the breathless sensation of freefalling.

She weeps silently into her hands as she mourns her lost year. Then, gathering her wits, she stands and opens a chest in the corner of the room as quietly as possible. She holds various bottles and vials up to the moonlight until she finds three precise ingredients, then gathers a book and a small box of utensils and takes them outside.

A botanical text rests on the ground beside her as she kneels by the stream. She prepares a concentrated solution according to recipe, then slips back into the house and lets her eyes readjust to the darkness.

Then she thanks the soldiers for bluntly striking her memory back into place by poisoning them in their sleep.

Her crime is quickly discovered the following morning. Her father wails and cries and pleads for forgiveness on her behalf, but she herself remains silent as she is beaten and kicked until her mouth fills with blood. When they grant her the opportunity for last words, she declares that Kohlingen will never submit to the Southern Empire, and supportive shouts arise from the gathering crowd.

One of the soldiers snarls and brandishes his sword. Her body spasms as the blade pierces her shoulder, and suddenly it's as though the entire town descends upon the band of foreigners, instigating a violent brawl. Dozens of bodies fall weak or lifeless before the remaining soldiers flee, promising vengeance at another time.

- x - x - x -

Her eyes flutter open hours later and the pain that greets her is so terrible she nearly retches. At her sudden stirring, her father clutches her hand and babbles apologies, but she hears none of it. She shakes her head and her eyes roll backwards, and she knows that she is dying.

"Locke..." she rasps, her throat sandpaper-raw. "Where is Locke...?"

She only hears echoes in response.

She repeats his name again, and then her body stills.

- x - x - x -

Her awareness feels dream-like – as though there is a slight delay between her sight and the rest of her senses. When she spins around the world follows just a bit too slowly, and the dizziness that results threatens to throw her off balance. She pauses for a moment to take in her surroundings: she stands in the midst of an unfamiliar forest, its trees unlike any she's ever seen near Kohlingen or illustrated in her books. The ground is cold and damp beneath her bare feet, and a dull mist rises from a nearby lake. For several minutes she remains in place, wondering where she is and how she got here, but unable to clearly process these thoughts in her hazy mind.

A flash of color catches the corner of her eye and she turns to see a group of people walking through the trees not far off. She recognizes the flowing scarves and skirts common to the dress of her hometown, so she hurries to join them, stumbling drunkenly along the way. They smile as she approaches and silently bid her follow.

As they wind their way through the forest, she hears a train whistle bellow. Soon, they're standing in a queue with many others all waiting to be let onto the platform. Her neighbors walk through the turnstile one by one. When it is her turn, she is halted by a man in a white hooded robe.

_"Rachel,"_he says, his voice reaching each of her ears a split second apart. His face is shadowed by the hood, and her eyes fill with a painful blue light when she tries to make out his features. She bows her head to avoid it.

_"You have no place on this coach."_

Her head snaps back up in surprise and she blinks away the piercing light.

"What do you mean?" she asks, and looks around to find dozens of curious stares. The hooded man simply gestures for her to leave the queue and she stumbles back, disoriented and distraught. When no one offers advice to her pleading expression, she rushes back into the depths of the forest alone.

- x - x - x -

She wanders for days without finding her way out of the forest. She passes by the silvery lake innumerable times no matter which direction she sets out in, and her despair eventually overwhelms her. She dives in, hoping to somehow drown herself, only to find that its waters revitalize her energy and never maliciously fill her lungs. Beneath the surface, she sees thousands of generations of broken skeletons and ancient, rusted relics, and when she pulls herself ashore, spectral figures have gathered to watch and laugh.

_"Not allowed on the train either, were you?"_ cackles one, his skin translucent and nearly all rotted away. _"Welcome to the club."_

"How has this happened?" she asks, wringing out her clothes with a sense of shame.

The wisps of skin about the corners of his mouth peel aside as he grins. _"You've died, but not been laid to rest in the waking world."_

"So I'm stuck here... forever?"

_"You'll eventually rot and then we'll throw you in the lake too. But it'll take... a long... _long_... time."_He laughs and it sounds like the creaking of old wooden floorboards.

Horrified, she stumbles to her feet and dashes away, determined to find a way out.

- x - x - x -

The brightness of the sun is nearly unfamiliar by the time she escapes the forest. Though the light pains her eyes, she feels none of its warmth on her skin. She finds her body casts no shadow on the ground, and it is only then that the fact that she is truly no longer a part of this world solidifies in her mind. Her relief at having found her way out of the labyrinth of the dead is short-lived.

Having no further direction, she walks straight ahead.

She passes through lands exotic to her – a colorful kingdom protected by loyal knights who speak an archaic dialect; frozen mountain ranges that seem to go on forever; a snow-saturated mining city hiding strange and docile creatures in its caves. She wonders if these are the places Locke would dreamily tell her about late into the night by the fireside. He'd always had so many stories, so intricately detailed – she only wishes she could remember them all now that _she _was finally out in the world.

She skirts around the perimeters of any forest she comes across, never daring to walk through even the smallest cluster of trees for fear that they might conceal more sinister things in the shadows beneath their boughs.

Eventually a familiar expanse of desert appears in the distance. Kohlingen is quiet as she approaches; only a few have yet stirred in the early light of dawn. The town is decorated for the autumn harvest now, but the air is a tenuous mix of excitement and apprehension. She waits and watches her neighbors as they wake and prepare for the events of the day – _ah, the main celebration is tonight_, she realizes with a bittersweet smile. She slowly makes her way to her father's house.

But she finds it closed and dark. Flowers and herbs are carefully arranged about the front door, and a sudden dread overwhelms her. She sinks to her knees and hours pass by, numb and unnoticed, until the sound of footsteps breaks through to her senses. An elderly woman shuffles past her, an offering in hand, and places it among the other gifts at the doorstep. She bows and mutters a prayer, then turns to leave a moment later, shaking her head in pity.

Rachel wills her limbs to move, and she drags herself closer to the house. She reads her family name upon a ribbon tied around the stems of a dozen lilies, and she falls to tears. She knows the flowers are not just for her.

At the cemetery, the most recently disturbed patch of earth is marked by a stone bearing her father's name. He lies next to her mother for the first time in seven years.

It takes her a moment to realize that there is no grave for _her_.

She wants to scream but she is too addled with emotions – terror, sorrow, confusion – and a shred of doubt begins to form in her mind. _Did I never exist? Are all these memories false?_She tears at the roots of her hair and falls to the ground, body writhing over the graves as she weeps and wails terrible sounds that no one hears.

The sun begins to set before she finds the strength to stand and distance herself from the awful graveyard. Halfheartedly, she heads back to the town square where she finds a crowd gathering for the harvest celebrations, but the usual mirth that accompanies this time of year is noticeably subdued. Nobody speaks too loudly, and smiles leave faces when it's thought that no one is looking.

The town deacon announces the commencement of the festival and bows his head in prayer. He delivers a mass eulogy for the recent deaths of so many of their neighbors, compliments the strength and unity of the community, and recites the names of those fallen in memorial. She hears neither her own nor her father's given names, but as with the gifts at their house he mentions only their family name.

With no brothers, uncles or cousins, her family's dwindling bloodline has come to an end.

The deacon concludes his prayer with a blessing for the townsfolk to enjoy themselves despite this painful time, as the harvest has been bountiful nonetheless. The musicians crash into song and the mood immediately lightens.

Rachel drifts through the crowd and nearly wishes she hadn't come back – _but what choice did I have_, she thinks bitterly. _All I had to look forward to was centuries of wandering that phantom forest until the skin rotted off my bones_.

But perhaps if she'd stayed, she would've seen her father one last time before he boarded the train. As it is, her final memories are of a weak-willed man who begged instead of fought, who'd shielded her from the truth that had been clouded by her old injury, who'd taken their family name to the grave without dignity. Perhaps she could've replaced this image with a happier one if she'd been able to see him to the platform and wave him off.

Or perhaps she still would've been angry. Furious that he'd been given the seat on the train that she was denied, even though she'd faced her damnation with pride while he cowered in the dirt. Distraught that she still had no explanation as to _why_.

Her thoughts are interrupted when her eyes pick a familiar face out of the crowd. She nearly cries aloud as she breaks into a sprint toward Locke, who wears his festival garb but stands off to the side, not interacting with the others as he normally would. His expression is blank; disinterested, practically lifeless. She stands before him and cannot hold herself back. She sobs and throws her arms around his neck, but quickly finds herself upon the ground in shock. As she twists her head around, she sees that her legs disappear around his feet. She swings them around; they pass through him like an illusion.

"Locke..." she says, her voice wavering. "Can you see me? Hear me? ...Anything at all?" Her nerve breaks as she pulls herself up to her knees and she begins to shout in desperation. "Why am I still here? Why am I alone?" She pounds the earth with a scream. _"Why are there no answers?"_

Her love, unaware, walks away to queue for the first festival dance.

People step through her spectral body as the crowd begins to shift, causing her to shiver with nausea. A claustrophobic sensation rushes over her, so she crawls out into the clearing where the dancers have taken their positions, waiting for the music to start. To her surprise, she finds Locke unpartnered. It appears the audience has taken notice as well, as some whisper in their neighbors' ears as they blatantly stare in his direction.

The song begins; the youths take their first steps. It's an old dance that she and Locke have performed together many times at harvests past, and an ache fills her heart more visceral than even the pinch of steel through her muscles. The murmur among the crowd grows more audible as the dance progresses and others notice the young man going through the motions as though Rachel were opposite him. It's almost a grotesque sight – color drains from faces as people begin to understand the bold statement he is making in a culture where _acquiescence _is traditionally a virtue.

Memories flash before her eyes, rapid-fire, as though Locke were not right there, dancing before her. _A flash of teeth as he grins, leaning against her doorframe, figure tired and somewhat worn as he returns from a long journey. The trail of scarves behind him and a backwards wave as he leaves to go on another. _Their relationship had centered around a series of greetings and good-byes. It saddens her to realize that their last farewell had been when – mind clouded by amnesia – she'd brusquely closed the door on him with a warning never to return.

And he'd followed that order.

She stands to join him now. She falls into step easily, fluidly, following his familiar movements and becoming the other half to their whole once more. She manages to keep the pace despite not feeling Locke's usual weight against her body. For a moment she catches his gaze – their eyes meeting – but she knows, painfully, that he doesn't see her. She wants to apologize – to assure him she doesn't blame him for her lost year, to express that her love and gratitude still remains – but the words, knowing they will go unheard, wither before they're ever spoken. Rachel and Locke continue their dance in funeral silence, lips pursed and chests heaving in effort to keep their thoughts and emotions from bursting out.

The music's tempo gradually quickens till its frantic climax. And as all the performers freeze in finality, an uncomfortable hush falls over the town square. The dancers, disconcerted, take their bow and leave the center circle. No one says a word to Locke. He immediately distances himself from the festivities.

She follows him to the outskirts of town. He leads them both down an overgrown path to a rickety shack amongst a smattering of crooked trees. She hesitates before stepping onto the property, but then discovers something familiar about the place. As she slips through the doorway, she is greeted by far-off memories of uncouth herbology lessons – lectures on ancient recipes for tinctures and tonics, salves and balms – introductions to seeds and leaves from distant lands with seemingly magical properties. A sweet yet rotten odor reaches her nostrils as she settles into the anteroom and watches Locke peering around corners suspiciously. A curious scent – though nothing out of the ordinary for the old herbalist.

She begins to tremble slightly, not daring to guess why Locke has any reason for coming here, but sensing that the answer carries an ominous weight.

"Locke! Is that you, boy?" calls a haggard voice from the basement. Locke's muscles relax in response and he hurries down the steps, Rachel close at his heels.

"Good to see you again before you head out," says the old man, nodding absently. His shoulders tic as he gingerly rises from his seat in the corner. He lights a hand-lamp and squints up at Locke's flushed face in the dim light. "Have you any leads?"

"Not yet. But I _won't_find any if I stick around here forever."

"Three years." The old man's voice is jarringly loud. "I can guarantee you no more than three years, and even that's pushing the limits of my ability."

Locke winces just slightly. "I'll return before then."

The herbalist brandishes a gruesome smile. "You'll accrue a hefty debt if you don't."

Rachel reluctantly searches for explanation in Locke's somber expression to no avail. The air is thick with a sinister secrecy.

"I've given you everything I have right now. You know I'm a man of my word. I'll pay whatever I owe, just... keep doing everything you possibly can till I find it."

A gritty laugh rattles from the herbalist's throat. "Young men have sought immortality since the dawn of time. It's not until they grow old that they realize death is something to be revered."

"_Don't_–" Locke's chest visibly tightens. "Don't patronize me," he rasps.

"I mean not to disrespect either of you," says the old man with a sudden sobriety and a wave of his hand. "But you'll do well to heed my words, when you're ready to embrace them. Now," he gestures toward the back of the room, "bid her farewell, for the time being."

The lamplight spills onto a raised altar near the far wall. The heady perfume of potted flowers is meant to mask the mixture of preserving spices and oils that surely bathe the object of this crude shrine, thinks Rachel as she takes a breathless step closer.

"Three years," the man repeats as Locke bows over the altar. "After that, I can't guarantee she'll remain as you knew her."

Another step. Her vision racks into focus, pupils dilating against the insufficient light as she wills her eyes to remain steadily upon the lifeless flesh stretched out before them.

And then she nearly collapses at the sight of her own face.

Her own hair, draped gracefully about her shoulders – _her head, uncovered before this man!_ – her arms, limp at her sides – hands clasped over her belly, fingers entwined around a bundle of fresh flowers. The skirts of her white dress – the one she'd been saving for graduation – fall in waves over the sides of the altar. She looks down toward her feet at the folds of pale orange she's worn since her death and shudders at the thought of someone – _who? _– redressing her body.

Her features contort. Tears spill from her eyes and the fatal wound in her shoulder reopens at the violence of this revelation, seeping blood into the silks about her breast. She finds her voice and wails and screams at the horror of it all, this circus-display of death and the weakness of the human spirit.

_"How could you?"_ she shrieks, clawing at the air that should be Locke's tangible form. _"How could you do something so vulgar?"_

As always, her voice falls on deaf ears. Locke bends to kiss the back of her rigid, corporeal hand before turning to leave.

"Take care of her," he chokes almost silently, then walks swiftly back up the stairs and out of sight.

Rachel watches, wide-eyed and frozen, as the herbalist tics and nods errantly like a marionette before extinguishing the candle-light.


	2. Chapter 2

She doesn't see him again for months.

She quickly loses any sense of time – day and night blur together now that she no longer sleeps, and she finds counting sunsets tedious. She never was able to regain the mental strength to keep track of such things, nor has the ability returned in this pseudo-afterlife.

Shortly after leaving Kohlingen, she is struck with a rather sordid sort of enlightenment – _she is free_. Free to see the world from which she'd been so long sheltered! Free to see with her own eyes that which she'd only heard about secondhand, to witness the good and bad, the beautiful and grotesque. For the first time since waking in the Phantom Forest, she is filled with excitement rather than fear, and she laughs at the heavens in defiance.

"If I can't leave this world, then I won't hesitate to indulge in it!"

She tears the scarf from her head and lets her hair flow freely under the midday sun. An unremarkable act to most, it would seem, but no man or woman of Kohlingen would dare expose themselves in daylight in such a manner. And when no ill or guilt befalls her for this act, it only emboldens her further.

She strips off her sashes, scarves and skirts and drops them to the ground. After a brief hesitation, she removes her underclothes. And she stands there, naked in the open, vulnerable if not for being invisible (or _already dead_), and she never felt so powerful in her _life_.

She sprints towards the sea and doesn't slow until its waves crash beneath her feet. She doesn't feel the chill of the water, nor does the wind tease her hair. When she steps further into the sea, she feels no resistance against her legs. She wades in up to her waist, and then dives below the surface.

She opens her eyes without the sting of salt, and her lungs don't burn for lack of oxygen. She is able to swim faster than ever before possible, and she lets out a muffled sob at the joy of having this new world suddenly open to her. She sinks herself deeper and deeper, until it is nearly too dark to see, and she marvels at the nameless alien life that swims and treads around her. Schools of fish dart through glowing corals, sharp-toothed predators hide amongst lilting weeds; wispy gels float idly by, their long tendrils dancing over the current. She thinks that she could spend an eternity here.

By the time she emerges, the flora on dry land has noticeably changed.

And unlike with the lake in the Phantom Forest, the earthly ocean leaves no trace of itself on her body; its waters don't saturate her hair. The intangibility of so much of the world begins to feel unbearably surreal, so she returns to the place where she'd long since discarded her clothing. Redressing, she finds the familiar swish of the skirts against against her skin a comfort in an existence where she cannot even feel the ground beneath her feet.

- x - x - x -

She crosses the mountains to the southeast and sees in the distance what can only be Figaro Castle. The desert kingdom Locke so often spoke of is every bit as magnificent as he described, and certainly nothing like what her feeble imagination would conjure up based on his stories. In the wealthy districts immediately surrounding the great fortress, she sees brilliantly-dressed people, favoring showy reds and purples to stand out against golden hair and sun-browned skin. Everything about them glows and she can't help but feel dull in comparison. She can see why Locke loved this place so much. It looks like Kohlingen's bigger, more glamorous cousin.

She catches a glimpse of the King – Locke had once returned from a long trip exclaiming that he'd met the King of Figaro and she was never quite sure she believed him. But there he is, the towering King with the pointed nose and charismatic aura. She follows him around for an entire day – his mannerisms are absolutely captivating – and she quickly sees through the flourish to find a young man who wishes inwardly to cast his responsibilities aside.

_Is it really this simple?_ she wonders. _Are people truly so transparent; it's just that everyone around us is blind?_

Girls titter with excitement to earn a wink from the handsome King. Boys thrust their chests forward to garner a proud nod from their leader. Even Locke had been starstruck after his encounter with the ruler of Figaro. None of them had seen the truth that Rachel had in just a few short hours. They don't see the circles under his eyes as he emerges from a long meeting. They can't know that he re-reads old letters from his brother before he retires each night. The last letter is dated two years ago. The King marks off another day on his calendar.

- x - x - x -

She finds herself in a bustling port city where the streets overflow with people buying and selling wares in the early morning. The air is saturated with the din of a thousand merchants shouting the best deals and citizens bidding them lower their prices. Rachel climbs a stack of crates and perches on the roof of a tavern to watch the flow of traffic down below. As the hours pass, she sees faces and fabrics of all different colors and styles – _people must come from all over the world to trade here!_she marvels. She wants to meet them all. She wants to see every landscape and culture the world has to offer. She finds them all beautiful.

Her heart swells with excitement. _You've given me a gift after all_, she thinks. _I spent my whole life in the same small town and now I can see the entire world. What a wonderful gift this is..._

- x - x - x -

She watches the seasons change as she travels. Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter... She never feels the chill of snow beneath her feet or the warmth of the noonday sun. She never smells the earth after a rain or tastes the fresh fruit of the trees. She can only observe from a distance, no matter how close she gets.

She shadows a different person in every village and town and city. Rich people, poor people, healers and thinkers, those who tell jokes, those who give speeches. She learns more in these years than she could have ever back home. And yet as time goes on, her enthusiasm wanes. She feels as though she's observing a world behind glass. What was once enriching and fantastic is now lonely and cold. With each sunrise, she feels more disconnected from her body than the last. She exists in a constant state of vertigo.

By the time she reaches the steel city, she can no longer tell if what's before her is real or hallucination. Young girls with dead eyes and translucent skin summon fire and ice out of thin air. A court jester whispers wicked council into the ears of an aging warlord. Chimeric creatures are strung up with wires and vivisected by men in long coats.

Soldiers in familiar brown uniforms queue for tactical training. Some of them are given strange weapons that shoot metal stones over great distances. Others climb into giant machines that walk on two legs and fire destructive beams of crackling light.

Rachel gasps for air as though being choked. A sharp pain stings her shoulder where she'd received her fatal wound and her eyes well with tears. This is the Empire that tried to invade her hometown. She knows they will return with greater forces and _succeed_. This isn't something she wants to witness. She again mourns her lost seat on the Phantom Train.

- x - x - x -

Locke looks visibly older. His features have matured, his muscles more defined. Faint circles droop beneath his eyes and his jaw sports a crop of stubble from several days on the road. He stops to build a fire and rest for a few hours. Rachel collapses at his feet.

"This is such torture," she says miserably. "I want to touch you and kiss you and... _talk to you_and all I can do is sit silently in your shadow."

He begins to whistle idly.

"I think we're the same age now," she muses. "Soon you'll be older than me, and you'll keep growing older and I won't change at all, until I begin to rot. You'll age handsomely and my hair will fall out and my skin will peel off my bones."

He leans back on his satchel and gazes up at the sky peacefully. She peers at him in the fading light of the evening and cannot read his thoughts.

"I would throw myself into these flames if it would wake me from this wretched dream."

- x - x - x -

She recognizes the girl asleep on the bed. She'd seen her curious emerald-tinted hair in the halls of the Empire's steel fortress.

"She was being controlled with this Slave Crown," explains Arvis. Locke frowns as he studies the copper circlet, which seems to be emitting a faint buzzing sound. "Her actions weren't her own."

Arvis gently lifts the crown from the girl's head and she stirs. The sound dies out.

"Can you hear me? Are you awake?"

Her eyelids flutter lazily and then suddenly open wide. She lets out a small gasp as she nervously scans the unfamiliar surroundings.

"Don't be afraid; you've had a bump on your head." Arvis' voice is soothing. "And you might be dizzy as I've just removed this mind-controlling device." He shows her the crown.

The girl looks at both Arvis and Locke in turn. She stares back at the Slave Crown and nervously runs her fingers through her hair.

"I don't..." Her voice cracks. "I don't remember _anything_..."

Rachel watches the color drain from Locke's face.

- x - x - x -

She likes this girl, Terra. She is timid and quiet, but she wields a sword with great finesse, showing strength in light of her recent horrific revelation. As the weeks go on, she regains bits and pieces of her memory, and with each new discovery she exclaims in joy and Locke smiles brightly.

In the beginning, Terra doesn't have much to say, and Rachel recalls the dry taste in her own mouth when she'd first awakened after her fall with nothing but static in her mind. As they travel south, Locke tries to break the tension by telling some of his old stories. Terra looks absolutely cherubic as she listens, enthralled and innocent, blue doll-eyes alight with curiosity. In time, she is able to recount stories of her own, but they always seem to have sad endings. Locke takes the girl into his arms one night as she cries, lamenting the loss of a friend to a fatal lab experiment, and his warmth appears to calm her.

Rachel watches from a distance. But the heaviness in her heart stems from the uncertainty on Locke's face as he holds Terra in embrace. For a moment it seems that he looks directly at Rachel and _sees_her there, and his expression is almost shameful.

_"Don't do that,"_ she spits, surprised at the tone of her own voice. _"I'm not here; don't look at me."_

He finally turns away and his shoulders relax. Terra pulls back, wiping her eyes.

"Sorry about that..." she mumbles.

Locke hands her a handkerchief and smiles gently. "No worries. I'm here for you, okay?"

Rachel shudders a sigh and slowly walks away from the campsite.

- x - x - x -

It hurts to watch him. He's holding back, he's censoring himself. He's being too careful around his new companion, as though he's afraid of breaking some unspoken rule or promise.

He wouldn't be so hesitant if he didn't like her. Where is that confidence that _she_knew so well? This is hardly the same boy she grew up with. This isn't the man she'd once hoped to marry.

She whispers to him as he sleeps each night, hoping her voice rings clearer in his dreams.

_"You're making yourself miserable, my love. I'm gone; let me go. Even if we meet again, I think you'll find we're no longer the same people we once were. You should be looking forward, not back. You have a new life now. Let me go..."_

She tries to stroke his cheek but feels only air beneath her fingers.

- x - x - x -

One morning as the sun begins to rise, she notices a strange stiffness in her bones. Her shoulder throbs terribly and she feels the _need_to rest for the first time in...

_How long has it been now? Must be... about three years..._

- x - x - x -

A rumbling explosion startles her out of her trance. She peers over the edge of the eastern tower of Castle Figaro to see a commotion in the central courtyard down below. The King is arguing with the Emperor's jester – _when had he arrived? how much time has passed?_– and she notices flames engulfing the opposite tower.

_But how can the stone burn?_She races down the stairs to make her way back to the main fortress. By the time she navigates the labyrinthine halls to reach the courtyard, more sections of the castle are aflame, and everyone has vanished. The floor trembles beneath her feet. She hears a shout from behind.

"Secure all portals! Engines engaged!"

She whirls around to see a Figarian guard disappear through the last open door, and the King's royal blue cape fluttering from atop the stone perimeter. He smiles and waves at someone down below and then leaps over the edge. She stands agape in shock until the fortress' quaking becomes so violent she is thrown to the ground. Desperately, she tries to pull herself toward the nearest exit but she already knows she'll be unable to open the door.

The shadows shift as the castle sinks. Sand begins to pour over its walls. Rachel presses her back against the stone and closes her eyes as the desert floods the courtyard.

- x - x - x -

Every muscle is clenched so tight that she trembles violently, but otherwise she cannot move. Solid darkness and silence surround her. Her mouth and nose are filled with sand. Her eyes are raw and burning.

_Trapped in torment and unable to die – this must be the damnation of legend._

She tries to will herself into her resting trance but her muscle spasms will not calm. Her inability to interact with the world had always been frustrating, but it had suddenly proven to be something terrifying as well. A cage was still a cage, even for a spirit. She lets out a whimper and chokes on sand.

- x - x - x -

The inability to track time is perhaps even more maddening than her physical entrapment. When at last she begins to hear a faint rustling sound and the dark wall of sand seems to faintly glow, she has no idea if she's been stuck for an hour or a day.

She wriggles in place and the rushing grows louder. The sand actually starts to give way. With a final thrust, she feels her fingers break free from her unlikely casket. She clambers out and watches the remains of the desert slide into drainage holes in the floor. Massaging her face, she releases the sob that had been stifled during the burial.

The atmosphere is terribly dark, and she can sense that the castle is still moving. With a sudden rush of adrenaline, she finds the lowest section of wall and scrambles over it, throwing herself to the solid ground far below.

The fall is exhilarating – she doesn't even have time to remember her last one – and as she rolls into the impact she finds herself laughing as tears stream down her cheeks.

"That's what I've been wanting, isn't it? To be buried? What a terrible joke...!"

Then she quickly falls silent, thinking she's heard a voice. She waits, unmoving, listening for another echo, and when nothing surfaces, she pulls herself to her feet. A dim blue-green light appears to be emanating from somewhere in the distance. Sensing no other place to go, she heads toward it.

_"...fortress again, I swear!"_

_"Such a curious thing! We should send Melchior to the surface again to see what's been developing of late."_

Their accents are unlike any she's heard anywhere in the world, and she finds them very difficult to understand at first. She continues toward the glowing light and the voices gradually become clearer.

_"When was the last time he went? Some thirty years ago?"_

_"Much longer than that! You have no sense of time."_

_"Ah, but it passes so quickly these days."_

She peers around the corner and gasps. Two skeletal figures stand casually in what appears to be a ruined courtyard. Their skin is stretched over their emaciated frames, and their eyes bulge grotesquely from their skulls. They are clearly dead, but look very different from the cruel specters of the Phantom Forest – they don't seem to be _rotten_.

"Someone there? Did you hear something?" One turns to the other.

Rachel hesitates, but then calls out, "C-can you hear me?"

"Oh, a visitor! Come on out! Ah yes, there you are."

"Such a pretty dress, there!"

"That bright orange – looks like a dragonfly, doesn't she?"

"A beauty like the Queen herself!"

Rachel absently runs her hand through her hair, suddenly very aware that she'd lost her scarves in the torrent of sand.

"Um... sorry, what is this place?" she asks timidly.

One of the crones coughs out a laugh. "Almost thought my senses were deceiving me; haven't had a tourist here in ages! You've found your way to the once-great Kingdom of Parua, dragonfly. I do hope you've heard of it."

Rachel shakes her head.

"Hm, that's a shame. I still can't believe no one from that ambulant fortress has 'discovered' us yet either. What is everyone occupying their time with up there, anymore?"

"Well, the fortress has only been traveling for about a month now."

"_Ten years_, Sanaz! Really, you should look at the dials once in awhile!"

"Uhm," Rachel clears her throat.

"Apologies, my dear; come along to the castle. The Queen will undoubtedly wish to meet you."

- x - x - x -

She can't help but grimace at the sights along the way. Bodies are strewn all about the castle grounds, forever frozen in twisted postures; mouths agape, teeth missing. Like Sanaz and her friend, their skins are leathery and stretched tight over their bones. They pass a few other living spirits who peer curiously at Rachel, their eyes wide and protruding. She finally voices the question that has been burning the back of her tongue.

"Those are _our_bodies, of course!" cackles the first crone in response.

"Not _ours_specifically. Mine is in one of the cellars," chimes Sanaz. "Anahita is out by the stables, aren't you?"

Anahita continues without acknowledging her companion. "Have you at least heard of – what did Melchior say they were calling it up there now – the _War of the Magi_?"

"Ah, yes!" says Rachel, brightening. "It was a legend my... friend's caretaker sometimes told."

"Good, good. Well, that's where this Kingdom's story _ends_. Parua was a prominent Kingdom over a thousand years ago, but became a target of power-hungry sorcerers once outbreaks of violence became more and more frequent between humans and Espers throughout the world. Parua was a neutral state where both races lived harmoniously, and many of the surrounding territories wanted to claim our land for one side or the other. We resisted for quite a long time, thanks to our great warrior King Odin, and the brave lady commander Apranik."

Both women pause to bask in apparently fond memories. For a split second, Rachel thinks she can see their faces fill out – almond eyes and soft cheeks of beautiful young ladies just about her own age. When she blinks, the skeletons return.

"Of course, we were overtaken eventually, or else you might have had Paruan neighbors back up there in your lifetime," remarks Sanaz.

"A fearsome battle took place in this very castle. Both Odin and Apranik were turned to stone. The sorcerers cut a great wound deep into the earth and our castle sank and was buried. All of our spirits were trapped and couldn't travel to the Woods of Passing. And then our bodies became naturally preserved – mummified by the conditions down here – and so we have continued on 'living' for a thousand years underground."

Rachel stands gaping in shock. "That's... _amazing_. And terrible!" she exclaims. "You have really been here for a _thousand years_ – I can't even imagine... and I thought _three_years was torment enough..."

Anahita lets out another haggard laugh. "You are indeed so young, dragonfly! But I don't imagine your body would be so phenomenally well-preserved as ours if you are as unwilling as you seem. Which leads me to believe you have a curious story yourself, no?"

A sense of shame washes over Rachel at the thought of finally having to admit the truth of her situation to someone else. She'd "met" so many people over the last three years who never had to know why she was there, seeing as they were never aware of her presence to begin with.

"My f... we were engaged to be married, but then... there was an accident..." She finds herself strangely tongue-tied, even as words had always come easy to her. "He wasn't there when I died... I was _killed_... and I guess he... he couldn't bear it, so..."

"Don't strain yourself, darling; we didn't mean to make you upset," says Sanaz. "I suppose a three-year wound still stings far more sharply than one as old as a millenium."

Rachel quickly wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "How, though... how do you know about the... the 'Woods of Passing' if you've never been there? How did you know your spirits were supposed to go there?"

Sanaz and Anahita look at each other questioningly. "Were you not taught the journey of Death?"

"I mean, some people have theories... I'd never quite believed any of them..."

"Ahh, such a shame, such a shame," says Anahita with a shake of her head. "Melchior did mention that the upper world appeared to have regressed."

"You mean humans had that knowledge at one point?"

"Most certainly; it was never a secret! One dies, one's spirit travels to the Woods of Passing, and then takes a ship down the River of Light and into the Havens – provided one's earthly body has been properly laid to rest. Unquestionable truth!"

A small sigh escapes Rachel's lips. Then, after a pause, she says sheepishly, "They have a train now."

"What's that?" Something like a frown forms across Anahita's brow.

Rachel smiles at last. "A set of carriages that run on a track. It's much faster than a ship, and much more comfortable. It travels on land, so you don't have to bear the bobbing of waves."

"Well, I guess they _have_ been busy up above, building _trains _and walking castles, haven't they, Sanaz?"

- x - x - x -

_Please, come in, _calls an ethereal voice. Rachel feels as though it echoes directly in her mind.

"The Queen is just ahead," says Anahita with an encouraging gesture.

The throne room is filled with shadows that feel thick like tar. The ambient blue-green light is faintest here, and Rachel strains make out any details around the ruined chamber. Her tired eyes jump about the room, interpreting movement where there is none. She takes a timid step forward.

_There is nothing to be afraid of; unfortunately there is not much we can do about the dreadfulness of this chamber,_ the voice says. It's uncanny, the way it injects itself into her mind, bypassing her true sense of _hearing_entirely.

As she ventures farther into the room, she begins to make out the shape of a person standing in front of a skewed and broken throne.

_To whom do I speak?_

"My name is Rachel… Y-your Grace," she replies, bowing her head uncertainly. She's never formally met a Queen before, and she's painfully unaware of the proper formalities.

_Just Rachel?_

"Rachel… of Kohlingen. Your Grace." Her name no longer matters.

_It is a pleasure to meet you, Rachel of Kohlingen. Please, there is no need for the honorifics. I am not really a Queen._

Rachel glances behind her only to find that Anahita and Sanaz have gone.

_My name is Apranik, former First Command of the Royal Guard. I would greet you properly, but my body and spirit have been encased in stone._

Squinting, Rachel can now see the finer details of Apranik's form. She stands braced in defense, but her head is held high and proud. Her eternal expression is one of confidence.

_My comrades have posthumously named me Queen, but that should have been for the King Odin to decide... Forgive me; I'm sure you've already been subjected to endless stories. I would like to hear some from you. Tell me about yourself, Rachel._

Rachel absently runs her hands down her skirts. "Well, I... lived all my life in a small town. My family was unremarkable. I was studying to be a doctor, but in the last year of my life I lost much of my memory due to a head injury. I was killed for protesting an oppressive invasion of our land."

_A warrior's death!_

"That's a generous statement. I poisoned two men in their sleep. If anything, it was cowardly."

_There is nothing honorable about war, but when it is inflicted upon one's home, there is nothing to do but defend oneself. I say that as a daughter of the military._

A sigh fills her chest. "It's disappointing that I never had the chance to _save_a life with my medical knowledge. I took two instead!" she blurts out.

She feels a sudden warmth about her, as though Apranik's spirit were holding her in sympathetic embrace. Her vision blurs as her eyes fill with tears, and the feelings of shame and regret that she'd held trapped within herself for all these years now come pouring out all at once. The talks of marriage and her insistence they wait until she'd graduated. Her refusal to leave her father's house despite promises of better education in a bigger city. Her stubbornness against taking any sort of risks and the heartache and yearning she felt with each fireside tale of excitement and adventure.

And the two risks she ever took – the first, costing her memory; the second, costing her life.

It wasn't fair.

She weeps into her hands, sensing the strange, thick shadows closing in on her. She again wishes for nothing but a seat on the train to take her away to the Havens and away from this terrible world.

_Darling Rachel_, she hears, and she forces her shudders to calm. _Go back to the surface and find your joy. I know very intimately how an afterlife on earth causes one to dwell on shortcomings and despair. Find a way to turn it into a gift. Make peace with yourself, and you'll be granted your eternal rest at last._

She thought she'd had it, once. Back in the ocean, stripped naked and discovering the true wonders of the world for the first time. She realizes now that something was still holding her back. Her innocent euphoria had simply been masking the anger and sadness.

She nods – which turns into a bow – and stammers a thank-you to the lady in stone. Once again at a loss for words, she gives a silent hesitation before turning to leave and to find her way back to the world above.

- x - x - x -

A nearly-full moon brightens the night sky above Figaro Desert. Rachel walks easily over its rippling surface, sands shifting in the wind but unaffected by her weightless footsteps _(yet so eager to encase her, should she find her weightless body beneath it)_.

There are so many things to fear, even in her dreamlike existence. She feels it will be a difficult path toward making peace with it all.


End file.
